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Paula Deen made several appearances at the 2010 South Beach Wine and Food Festival. On Sunday afternoon, she was scheduled for a 45-minute cooking demo, where she was to prepare stuffed shrimp; but after being overscheduled with other events, she showed up 20 minutes late. As a result, she just talked to the audience instead. And she is filthier than Blanche Deveraux from "The Golden Girls."

Topics of discussion included:

Sex: "Children don't like to think about their parents with their heels raised up to Jesus. My kids think they were born from immaculacy. Is that what it's called?"

Her assistant Brandon: "I love my drunk gay assistant!"

Gay men who formed a fan club for her husband, Michael: "They were bears. Y'all know what bears are? Bears would be you (pointing to a large tattooed man), if you were gay. You're cute, stand up, I want to look at you."

Arguing with a festival staff member who flashed a "2 minutes left" warning sign: "Okay thank you. (Raises middle finger) Let me know when I have one minute left."

The horny nature of her drunk gay assistant Brandon: "He's been away from his partner for four days, and he said even wine bottles are starting to look good."

On getting her start running an illegal catering business out of her house: "My boys and I lived in fear 24 hours a day the food police were going to follow us home after a job. But when you're a single mother, you do what you've got to do to get the job done."

The gay community: "It don't matter who loves you, as long as you're loved."

I have seen a lot of bad art. Bad theater, bad music, bad magic shows and ballet and comedians, I will suffer through almost anything with patience. You have something to say? Put it on a stage, and I will listen to you say it.

There are very few shows that I've seen that were so bad, I walked out. For me to leave a show, it has to make me angry that they are just offensively wasting my time. I remember every time I've walked out. Allow me to introduce you to the list.

I am in the process, the very soul-wrenching process, of selling my belongings piece-by-piece. A few of my friends threatened to report me to the show Hoarders due to my addiction to buying furniture. I don't consider it an addiction, I think I merely have a good eye for a bargain. That super-cool modern bathroom sink stashed in my closet? It's going to look amazing some day in my new bathroom, when I finally decide to move to someplace new...that mysteriously lacks a bathroom sink. Whatever, I see sink-less bathrooms all the time, don't you?

I am terribly enabled by my surroundings: Miami is coming apart at the seams, and foreclosures are still running rampant. As the banks take over, the beleagured homeowners gut their pads and get rid of absolutely everything as quickly as possible. Chandeliers, wall sconces, counter tops, doorknobs, even those aforementioned bathroom sinks are ripe for the picking. Just so you know, I don't have any counter tops in my closet. But the rest of the stuff, I do.

There's also the fact that I live a block off Lincoln Road, and once a month there is an antiques market (translation: flea market). I tremble as I walk by. My fingers twitch with the impulse to flip over price tags. But other than a lovely Art Deco desk lamp—I collect lamps, my collection is a lot cooler than you'd think—I haven't bought anything in a few months. Too bad that collection is, yes, packed away in my closet.

Sooooooo, it's time to move some of this stuff out of here. I previously had an armoire that jutted from a corner in a way that it stuck out to the front door—the door still swung all the way open, so it was just fine there!—but my friend said it had to go. I gave in. Thank you, Craig's List.

It should be noted I am not entirely out of control. I have absolutely nothing on my walls. I don't hang photos; T.L. framed a photo of my mother and put it on my desk, as if I don't get ten phone calls a day from her anyway and I need her staring at me while I type. But that's it. I don't do knick-knacks, they drive me crazy when they get dusty ten minutes after I clean. So there is still hope, I guess. And it's also partly his fault: he's the one who had the idea to store my pots and pans underneath my bed. It should be noted my stove doesn't work, I didn't turn on the gas, so I can't use any of that stuff to cook.

So if you come over, you'll be impressed with my progress. Just don't go into my bathroom. You might trip on the air conditioning unit that is on the floor. I actually like it there, it serves as a nice shelf for stuff.

Several of us writer-folk are going on a press junket to Sweden, with a stop in the Arctic Circle at Jukkasjärvi, where the IceHotel is built every year. This is actually a great place for couples to go—you keep each other warm between the sheets, if you get my drift, hey hey hey—but I will hopefully find romance of my own while I am there flying solo.

Lapland, the area of northern Scandanavia (includes parts of Norway, Finland and a little bit of Russia too) is a lovely place filled with reindeer and the Northern Lights. I've never been to Sweden, never been to Arctic anything, never thought about hanging out in an igloo wired for electricity. Hopefully I'll get to either ride a sled pulled by an animal of some sort, or at least wear snowshoes. I imagine sleeping in this place will be like staying the night in Superman's palace at the North Pole.

So I called my mother and asked her to FedEx me some winter clothes, as I am currently in possession of exactly two sweaters. That ain't gonna cut it. Then when I return States-side, I'll send it all back, perhaps with a recipe for delicious Reindeer Stew thrown in as well.

I do have questions. For instance: when sleeping in the Ice Hotel, is your bed just blankets over the ice? If you have active dreams, do you wake up and find you've made snow angels in your bed? I am a side sleeper, I don't know how sleeping on ice is going to work out.

I have encountered the unfortunate phenomenon of "All My Friends Are Out Of Town," a rare and unpleasant misalignment in the social universe when everyone you know selfishly leaves you to go live their own lives. This person is working, that person is on vacation, everyone is gone gone gone. I don't have anything to do until tonight, when I will attend an NFL party to interview football players on what they think of Tiger Woods. But that won't take more than an hour, NFL players aren't a long-winded group.

I have cleaned my apartment, or I picked up here and there until I gave up; I have paid my bills, and saved hundreds of dollars in late fees that I usually accrue. So that was productive. And now...I'm looking out at the 50-degree weather, which is too chilly for shorts but if I wear a coat I'll get hot. I can't win. OMG I'm going back to bed.

So let's discuss the world of sports. I need some fodder for questions to ask tonight.

1) After Plushenko complained that he should have won the gold instead of the silver in Men's Figure Skating, Evan Lysacek responded with "Nobody likes to lose..." What a bitch. I don't have a question about that, I just wanted to share my displeasure.

2) Okay seriously, what is really the big deal about Tiger Woods? Is this public crucifixion appropriate? I can honestly tell you: living in Miami, I see sports stars all the time down here, and hookers are a common accessory. So Tiger Woods having sex with waitresses or whatever, it just doesn't seem like as big of a deal to me.

Hi. We haven't met and I basically have no connection to you other than following your career just like everyone else. I do have a friend who met you once at a club somewhere and she said you were bitchy and genuinely nice, two qualities I hold in the highest esteem. Perhaps someday I will get to judge for myself, but as of now it's merely limited to me dreaming of going to a spa and getting our nails done together while we talk smack about Evan Lysacek.

I just want to take this opportunity to tell you, my beloved Johnny, that I got your back. I watched both the Short Program and the Free Skate in these Vancouver Olympics, and like all those people in the audience that booed your scores I believe you were robbed.

Y'know, speaking of Evan, he can jump and "make transitions" and "use different edges of his blades" or whatever it is you guys do out there on the ice, but he's just a pile of tricks wrapped up in a bunch of black Spandex. There's no point to anything he doing on the ice, and rewarding the "technical" over technique makes skating boring. Yeah he's cute but so what.

When your scores came out so low, I was devastated. Such an agenda against you, those judges have! Critics decreed your Free Skate as being "too easy," and they say the people who think you deserved a medal don't truly understand the competition. That is like looking at a piece of art, saying you don't like it, and then having an art snob criticize you by saying "You don't understand art." No, I understand what I saw, and what I saw was fabulous. And that Japanese dude who won the Bronze?...after he watched you skate, he was scared shitless that you were going to steal his medal. He DOES understand skating, and he knew what was up. There's your proof. His face said it all. You deserved better.

That Evan Lysacek is dead to me anyway. The way he pumps his fists while still performing his program, congratulating himself before he's finished, and then hanging out on the ice soaking up the adulation...enough already. Skate and get off the ice please, save the gloating for the podium.

So carry on, Johnny Weir. You inspire the sissies of the world to flaunt our inner asymmetrical-bustierre-with-pink-laces. If I owned one, I would be wearing it today in honor of you.

I can't believe it's been four years since I wrote this: in honor of my 2nd favorite Olympian ever (only slightly behind Mary Lou Retton), I compiled a collection of quotes from figure skater Johnny Weir (click link to see the old post).

This is his controversial performance at the 2006 Olympics in Torino, where he embodied "The Swan" by Camille Saint-Saëns, complete with the red glove to symbolize the swan's beak. Love it or hate it—I loved it—you can't deny the man can skate.

Johnny Weir skates tonight, up against his American arch-nemesis Evan Lysachek. I'm already sitting in front of my TV and it doesn't start for another 10 minutes. I don't want to miss a minute of the bitchery on ice.

This was on their last day with me, minutes before we left my apartment. The dogs normally whined incessantly, but that last day they didn't make a sound. None of the puppies ever do. They know.

I usually get them at 4 weeks old, but it's been my experience that their eyesight doesn't fully kick in until week 6. So I'm the first mom they really see. I feed them formula, I wean them to canned food and then the harsh reality of dry food that will undoubtedly be the staple of the rest of their lives. But even with the dry food, I mix it up with water or formula so it's easier to chew with their little teeth.

Puppies this young need lots of attention, way too much for the average dog owner. They must eat many times each day. They don't understand how to lap up water. No puppies should ever be separated from their mother before 8 weeks old at least—they can develop deep anxiety disorders that haunt them for their entire lives—so when I get them, I hold them and pet them often, to teach them to be calm and make them better pets for their real owners. If the dogs are messed up in the head, their frustrated owners might bring them back to the shelter and that may not be a happy ending. So I teach them as much as I can, to give them their best shot out there in the world.

We learn to follow without a leash (I am an expert at this), we learn to come when called (this has varying degrees of success, depending on the dog) we learn to not steal food from their siblings' bowls (this...sometimes doesn't stick very well). We learn that when I leave, I will come back, and there is no need to cry or panic.

And then...we take a ride in the car, a ride that is very quiet, and we walk into a building they vaguely remember by the scent. When I put them on the counter, they usually don't look at me anymore, they just look down. And when I leave, I cross my fingers that their new lives will be at least tolerable.

Some of the dogs, I know where they go—their new owners send me photos as they grow, with funny stories. But I can't help worrying...for some, it won't be great. I picture them tied up to a post, in the hot Florida sun, with no shade and no water and nothing to do, adopted by people who thought they were cute when they were young but now think of their pets as a nuisance. Maybe the dogs remember what it was like with me, when things were better, and the blankets in the corner were soft.

I know they don't understand why I give them away—that's why they look at me like this, in the photo above. But there is only a certain amount I can do out there in the world. And there will be more...puppy stores are everywhere, the "puppy mills" keep cranking out too many dogs, idiot shoppers will keep these places in business. I'll end up with a new batch soon.

And when I do, I'll teach them how to drink water and how to pee on the newspaper, or at least try to make it there before there's an accident. Their bladders are small, you can't expect too much. And when they wake up in the middle of the night and blindly wander too far from bed, I'll scoop them up and put them back where they belong, again and again. After doing it once or twice, I think they get lost on purpose, just to make sure I'll come help.

I also remember the opening ceremonies for the Barcelona Olympics in 1992, when they had dancers spread across the field mimicing the rolling of the waves, as big ships "floated" around. It was cool as hell. I can't fathom why Vancouver couldn't get their act together and do something more interesting than showing nature movies on big white sheets.